


Grand Gestures and Day to Day Life

by KerylRaist



Series: Burnverse [2]
Category: Burn Notice
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 19,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KerylRaist/pseuds/KerylRaist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bit and pieces that didn't make it into seasons 5 and 6 (maybe 7) of Burn Notice. Scenes between the scenes, shippy stuff, lots of character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5.9.1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter numbers indicate season, episode, and which story this is. So 5.9.1 means season five, episode nine, story one. 
> 
> I've been live writing this, as each episode comes and goes, and will update pretty frequently until I catch up with the show. And then updates will happen as the muse hits.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

"We'll talk later."

More chilling words no man has ever heard. At least, that's how Michael usually reacts to Fi saying something like that. But, as he's driving home, ignoring Sam plowing through his sixth donut of the day, he's realizing that lately, he's been doing an even worse than usual job as a boyfriend, and that's not exactly a skill he's going to be winning awards for when he's doing well at it.

So, threading his way through traffic, feeling the adrenaline that goes with an attack wearing off, he tries to get some ideas straight in his head. He tries to have something to actually say to Fi, something that might be... Useful? Honest? Important?

Hopefully all of the above.

He gets the home earlier than he expected. A few miles from Elsa's, Sam tells him to pull over. He does, and Sam changes into clothing that is not covered in junk food crumbs and reeking of cordite and smoke. He brushes his hair, makes sure all the powdered sugar is gone from his whiskers, and pops a piece of gum.

"Gotta look good when I get home," he says by way of explanation.

Michael tries to think about when he last did something like that for Fi. Some sort of basic, every day courtesy that she'd appreciate. The fact that he can't remember a time in the last year is a very damning answer.

At least he doesn't sneak around behind Fi's back doing things she doesn't like. Usually. No, he usually does them right out in the open and drags her into them, as well. It occurs to him that this is not necessarily any better than hiding and pretending he's not doing them.

He waves absentmindedly to Sam as he drops him off at Elsa's. 

He's been to fifteen different cities in six countries in the last six months. And yes, that's a lot of travel. And yes, he's been doing important things. But he could have at least picked up a snow globe for her from one of those places. 

He deflates a little. They were in a tourist trap in Tampa, getting gas, and he didn't get her anything.

He trudges up the steps to their home. When he get in, she's finishing up her dinner, sitting on what he now considers her side of the counter, a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other. 

She looks up. "How'd it go?"

He gets a little closer before starting to answer, and sees her nostrils flare. She's caught the scent of bullets and smoke.

"Not as well as I would have liked. Nikolai was a trap. But, it was a trap that didn't work out the way Lucien thought it would. He's dead. He did tell me what the next step is though."

"So, one for the win column?"

"I guess." He gets a yogurt out of the fridge, and begins eating it. Quickly. He's hungry, and hungry and emotional heart to hearts are never a good combination. Emotional heart to hearts and pretty much anything aren't a good combination, not for Michael, but he might as well not be distracted.

After a minute, he's wrapped up the food, and Fi is staring at him, trying to figure out why he's working on setting a record for fastest yogurt eaten.

She's still sitting on her stool, and he drags his a little closer. So he can lean against it and comfortably hold her hands.

"I'd like to say something to you, and I know if I don't get it all out in one piece, I'll never get it finished. So, would you just listen to this? I promise, I'll listen to whatever you want to say to me after, I promise I'll answer questions, and I promise this will be a conversation, not just a monologue, but I know if there's any chance of not saying all of this, I'll take it."

Fi nods at him. She can see there's something very unlike Michael going on right now, and she's not sure if this is going to be good or bad. He's not sure either.

He closes his eyes, pulls in a deep breath, opens them, and takes both of her hands in his. 

"I'm not good at everyday life. You know that. But it's not just that I'm not good at it, but that I can't do it. 

"I don't mean I get too bored, or that I just don't like it, but that I need the kind of life that forces grand gestures and makes everyday life almost impossible.

"And I know that I'm bad at everyday life. And I know I can do better. I know I spend too much time focused on me, and that's something I can work at.

"But, we're never going to be Nate and Ruth." Her eyes go wide and perplexed at that, and he can feel she wants to say something, probably along the lines of 'Are you insane?' "No. I know that's not what you want, either, it's just an example. I already know that a settled life with you and kids in the 'burbs somewhere is something that's never going to happen for us. 

"I can barely be Robin Hood. I know you and Sam think that being a freelance-go-in-and-save-the-day-guy should be enough. But it's not.

"It's not that I don't like helping people. I do. But I need the big picture. I need the puzzle. I have to have the seventeen layers of tangle and information that's never quite what it seems to be and plans within plans within plans because that keeps my mind occupied. That keeps the fear away." He says the last bit quietly.

"You saw that week where we thought everything was done. With no bigger picture, I was a wreck. I start to shake and see ghosts where there are none and end up assaulting a guy trying to buy a teddy bear for his kids, or wake up shooting at shadows.

"Anyway. I know that I'm bad at this. And I promise I will do better at it. But, if what you want is a guy who can make dinner reservations and actually be able to show up for them, say, more than three quarters of the time, I don't think I can be that guy for you.

"I can work on putting you first, but it's not going to happen overnight. Because, at least for now, we're in the middle of more puzzles and layers of hidden plans, and I have a feeling that's not going to go away anytime soon. And I'm afraid I might not be the kind of guy who can stop chasing the puzzles, even when this one gets solved." 

He stops for a second and thinks about it. She's about to speak, but he holds up a hand to let her know he's not done, hasn't gotten to what he's really hoping to talk about.

"Fi, I want a life with you. And you know, that no matter what, I will always be there with the grand gesture. I'll crawl through broken glass and set myself on fire if it means you'll get away, clean. As long as I'm alive, I will always be your white knight, ready to ride in, no matter how many dragons might be between us. Bullets and bombs and running in to save the day, and I will always be there.

"Bullets and bombs and running in to save the day keeps me functional. They keep fear away. They keep rage away. I can focus my mind on what matters and do something no one else can. I can do it better than anyone else. I can make whatever it is right. I can..." He closes his eyes, aware that this is part of what he wants to say to her but not the heart of it.

"My earliest memory is from about the time I was four. My mom was pregnant, so I couldn't have been more than five. I was hiding in my room, hearing my father curse at her, and the sound of his fists hitting her. I can remember peeking out, seeing him slam a clenched fist into her shoulder, and the sound of her sobbing, with her hand shoved into her mouth, trying to stop the sound.

"I was nine when I realized that if he was hitting me, he wasn't hitting her or Nate. So I made sure he was always hitting me.

"I was fourteen the first time I hit back. I was as tall as I am now, but probably 140 pounds. Gangly. And he was bigger than Sam, and I saw it in his eyes the first time I pulled back and punched him; he liked it. He didn't want to just pound on someone; he wanted to fight.

"And I was seventeen, staring at him, passed out drunk on the sofa, knowing that I'd kill him. Knowing that I didn't know how to do it, not so I could get away with it. I wanted him dead, and I wanted to be the man who did it, but I wasn't about to go to jail for it. I went to the army recruiter the next day. Three weeks later I was in basic training. 

"By the time I knew I could get away with it cold, by the time I had every move planned out, every weapon picked, every alibi set, I was on the other side of the world, and the fucking son of a bitch died before I got the chance to do it." Fi looks very startled when he says that. Michael curses when and as needed, but he never says fuck because it reminds him of his father, drunk and out of control, screaming at whomever got near. 

"I like to think, that if I had done it, the fear would be gone. I'd have slain the monster, saved my mother and brother, and the need for all of this, for the constant push to keep myself active to the edge of endurance would be gone. 

"But I'm not the one who did it. The boogey-man won."

He shakes his head. "It's stupid, isn't it? He's been dead for almost fifteen years, and I'm still running away, pushing myself farther and harder to keep his ghost, and all the other ghosts I've piled up over the years, because that's another thing about this job, it keeps fear away, while you're doing it, but each new day adds new enemies, new fears, more horror that needs to be driven away by more work.

"For a long time, the CIA was the way to keep the fear away. Add new fear, sure, but it worked. And now... Pearce told me about her fiancée getting killed, and that could have been you. So easily, Fi. Probably would have been if I had been a few hours later on getting out of Ireland. And Sam... Those two bastards would have just let him die, and probably would have laughed about it later.

"I don't know what I would do if something happened to you." He stops for a second, touching her face, thinking about it. He shudders a little, then takes her hand in his again.

"Actually, I do. I'd go cold for as long as it took to kill them all, and then I'd go insane. When Strickler said you were my past, I killed him without a second thought, because you are not my past, and if he was going to do anything to you, he had to die. And I saw you floating there, unsure if you were dead or alive, and I could feel it, my grasp of real life, my grasp of sane starting to ravel away from me.

"I need you. I'm bad at everyday life. I know it, you know it, but even as bad as I am at this, you make me better at it. You make me want to be better at it. 

"And I don't do this emotional stuff very often, because it makes me feel out of control, makes my stomach clench up and my ability to do what I need to feel like it's slipping away. It's too much like being a child and seeing him looming, bigger than anything in the world, ready to lay down pain and hate in ringing bruised flesh. 

"And I'm aware enough to know that this is a grand gesture, too. That everyday life would have been me remembering to pick up a snow globe for you, or actually make a dinner reservation and keep it, or stop on the way home and get some flowers or something, and then keep on doing it every damn day so that one day you don't decide you want a life with a guy who's not constantly chasing something bigger and more dangerous, who has a job with normal hours and the ability to put you first in his life because he's not trapped fighting ghosts that can never be defeated because the damn things are dead.

"I'm never going to be good at this Fi. I might, with work, eventually get to mediocre. But I can't put the big picture down, and I can't stop chasing the danger, not now at least, and I don't know what I'm going to do if the CIA doesn't pan out, because I'll be lost again." He goes quiet, done for now. 

She stands up, her hands still in his, reaches up on her tip toes, and kisses his forehead. "Normal hours would bore me   
senseless in a few days. Come to bed with me, this kind of conversation should be had in the dark, lying down, naked."


	2. 5.9.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fi, Michael, a late night conversation naked in the dark.

5.9.2

Fi cuts off the lights, and strips out of her clothing quickly. Not like it takes too long to slip out of a sundress and a pair of strappy sandals. She lies on their bed, and stretches her arms out to him.

Michael joins her, naked, smooth skin against hers. She spoons up against his back, knowing warm, comfortable flesh does a better job of keeping the demons away than just about anything else.

Dim moonlight, brighter street lights tinged pink from the neon of the club below, and the constant low grade hum of the music below fills their loft.

She's not entirely sure where to start. A long time ago, maybe two years now, Maddie had told her about the abuse, sure that Michael would never actually say anything to her about it, and certain it was something Fi needed to know. And even before that, she'd picked up more than enough clues to know Frank Westen wasn't any sort of prince. 

She had thought he might say something about it when they were trying to break Takeda, but he just shrugged it off, left it hidden under the rock.

Where to start...

"I killed the men who killed Claire. I got the guy who planted the bomb. I got the guy who made the bomb. I got the guy who ordered it. I got the guy who shot her while trying to stop the bombing, and I got the guy who ordered him to take the shot. Anyone even remotely responsible for her death is dead.

"It didn't help. Doing it helped. Hunting them down helped. Taking the shots, that was great. But after, the pain and fear was still there. Revenge is like Sam's junk food, good while you're eating it, but it doesn't satisfy long-term.

"It never goes away, Michael, not like that. The dragons are eternal because they're in your head, not out there waiting to be slain. 

"I know I'm not the poster child for well-adjusted mental health. But I think I'm a few miles ahead of you on that path." He smirks a little when she says that, aware that she's right. She, at the very least, has hobbies, and friends, and the attachments that tend to go with normal life. "So I understand this is the slightly-less-black-kettle calling out the pot... but... anyway. When things die down a bit, would you go to counseling? Not right this second, I know you don't have time in your schedule for it, but when this puzzle is done, before you go find the next one, on your own, or with me, or Maddie, or Sam, or anyone, go to counseling."

She stops, and he can feel this is something that he has to respond to. He can't bluff his way out of it. He turns in her arms so he's facing her, and kisses her.

"I think it'd be easier to set myself on fire. Scratch that, I know it would be easier to set myself on fire. I trust you, with everything in my life, with everything I love, and it's taken years to get that out to you. I've told no one else about it. Even my mom and Nate, who of course know about what happened, don't know how deeply it's still with me."

Fi nods. Expecting something like that. "I was in New York. New life, new city. No one to kill. No jobs to do. Completely lost. There's an IRA pub on... It doesn't matter. I found myself going there, picking fights, trying to get them to pay attention and give me something to battle because I was aimless. I was home, after a fight, nursing a black eye, broken tooth, and a gunshot wound." She feels him stiffen beside her, wondering which scar went with that fight. "Little one, just creased my wrist." His hands trace, without light, to the scar, because he knows them all now, even if he doesn't know how she got them all. She nods, he's got the right one. Eighth of an inch to the right and it would have destroyed her fine motor control in her right hand. She doesn't need to tell him that, either; he knows.

"For a few days there was still a lot of swelling, and my right hand didn't work very well. That was my rock bottom moment. I was risking all of this for nothing. Not like that fight was going to save the day, or make anything better. It was just a stupid bar fight. I went to confession two days later, and found a priest who was a good listener with a checkered history of his own.

"And he helped me see how to fight the dragons. How to really fight them, because bullets and rage didn't get the job done."

"I didn't know that."

"No one else does. Face the dragons with me, Michael. We're never going to be Nate and Ruth. We're never going to have the house in the 'burbs with the 2.5 kids, normal hours, or regular jobs. That's not us. But we don't have to constantly be on the run, either. We could be Robin Hood, righting wrongs, saving lives, and doing it because we like it and we're really good at it, not because we need it to push fear away. And if we're off being Robin Hood, we never have to worry about idiot bureaucrats making calls we hate and getting people we love killed. No more slowly selling our souls trying to make things right.

"You'll always be there with the grand gesture. Good. This is the one I want. I can save myself from the bad guys. But I can't make you into the man I need. Only you can do that."

He thinks about it for what she considers a surprisingly short time. But he killed Strickland in less than fifteen seconds. Committing to the grand gesture isn't a problem for him. "Would your priest talk to me? I can't imagine there's a long list of   
counselors in Miami who have the background to really deal with this."

She smiles and kisses him. "Yes. I think he would."

"I probably won't be very good at this, either."

"It's not marksmanship, Michael. You don't have to be an expert at it."


	3. 5.10.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael, a priest, and seeing about being a better man.

5.10.1

He's gotten home from his meeting with Pearce. And, to say Fi was less than thrilled with him when he left would be something of an understatement. Part of it is she always gets tense and snappy at him when he comes back wounded. But the much bigger part is that upon waking up, he was back to his usual, emotionally closed-off self. He could tell she was hoping for more after   
last night, but, well, he's not good at this. 

But he's trying to be better. 

Which means making a phone call, to a priest. 

For a spy, the ability to have a truly private conversation is a fine art. It has to be. And for Michael Westen in particular it's a skill that's been honed and tested against the best. Because when you've got the combined weight of a massive international conspiracy on your head, at least two and probably more US government agencies, plus every organized crime syndicate in Miami all itching to find something to use to make you do what they want you to, you really need secure communications.

Fortunately spies learn how to talk so no one gets to hear.

And Michael is a very, very good spy.

First and foremost, the burner phone. At any given time, Michael has at least three of them hidden around the loft, so finding one isn't an issue. 

He checks it and everything he's wearing to make sure it's clean. This one is clean, which it should be, he bought it less than a week ago, but just because something is new and still sealed in its original packaging doesn't mean that it's clean. His clothing is fine. With that he grabs a pair of shoes. He knows shoes are easy to bug, so he's got a special little toy hidden under the shelf all of his live on. It's a magnet. A very strong magnet. Any electronic gear that might end up in his shoes won't be working by the time he puts them on in the morning. His sun glasses also live on that shelf. 

So, now all he has to worry about now is bugs on everything else in his life, directional mics, and people planted to be near him and listen.

There are ways around that, too. He slips the phone into his pocket and walks to the nearest car rental place.

He's never actually used this agency. Usually, they steal cars for quick jobs. But somehow it seems, sacrilegious, or something, to steal a car to talk to a priest about being a better man. 

The clerk hands him a set of keys to a non-descript Ford Focus and he hops in. Like wearing a suit from Walmart, driving it isn't something he enjoys, but when he needs to do it, he can, and do well at it. 

He doesn't have a place to go in mind. The idea is to just drive and talk. Easy enough.

Right.

He's sitting in the parking lot of the rental agency, car idling, going nowhere.

He sets the earphone and dials the number. Fi's already called Father Ian Guier, let him know who Michael is and that he'd like to talk to him. So it's not precisely a cold call. But still, his hand is trembling slightly and he's very aware of the fact that he's put eleven numbers in, but still hasn't punched the call button. 

Drive. Get moving first. Then hit the call button.

He pulls into traffic and decides that if he's going to do this, he might as well kill two birds with one stone. He's always on the lookout for good places to hide things, so now would be a fine time to drive around and see what he can find. 

He's idling at a stop light. Now would be a really good time to hit that button. Nothing is going on. He's not distracted or trying to precision drive. 

He picks up the phone and stabs the call button with his thumb.

Michael's not a religious man, but he's awfully close to praying that the phone will go to voice mail.

"Hello." No such luck. The voice greeting him is deep and sounds like working-class Belfast.

"Ian Guier?"

"Yes. And this is?"

"Michael Westen. Fi called you about me."

"Fi's man! Yes she did, lad. She's been telling me about you for years." 

The patented Michael Westen I'm-horribly-uncomfortable-but-smiling-so-you-don't-notice-look is remarkably ineffective over the phone.

"Urgh..." He was hoping to come up with something more eloquent than that, but nothing is springing to mine. "Yes."

"And..." Ian says. Yes, this would be the point in the conversation where one usually comes to the point. 

"I'm trying to be a better man for her."

"Stop wasting my time and yours. This doesn't work if you're doing it for her. You'll try, fail, and end up resenting her for it. Call me when you want to be a better man for yourself, and we'll have a shot at something."

That wasn't what Michael was expecting, at all. He feels a real smile creep onto his face, and begins to understand why Fi likes this man.

"What's the first step in being a better man for myself?"

"Figure out who you are. Then figure out who the better version of that is. Not a version you think Fi would like, but who you want to be. Get that set in your head, and give me a call."

"I can do that."

"Then go do it. It was nice talking to you."

"Likewise." Michael hangs up the phone, not sure of what just happened, but feeling like this might not be nearly as bad as he thought it would. Though, given the choice between deep personal introspection and setting himself on fire, fire might still be easier.

Time to go home. Who knows what fires he'll have to put out for the CIA tomorrow or what Sam and Jesse will have found out about Tavian?


	4. 5.10.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Sam shooting the breeze.

5.10.2

"So, Mike, Fi's pissed at you." Sam says as the two of them go over the money trail Tavian left.

"I know, Sam."

"She's saying you're having an easier time fitting her snow globes into your life than her."

Michael sighs. "She's right. All the snow globes," he looks around their home, "flowers, potpourri, and fluffy pillows need is space. And I can do space. But I'm working on it. And she knows it."

Fi was a lot less mad at him after she got home and he told her he had called Father Guier. Sure, she still wasn't thrilled about the whole taking her for granted thing. And apparently Sam's computer guy was a bit less willing to do the job than she had expected. And there might be an APB on her car, because there was a whole lot of fast driving. Though that part was fun. But, still, it hadn't been a fabulous day on her side, and his immediately running off to Pearce was the proverbial icing on the cake.

"Good. Keep working on it. Because everything is a lot more fun when you two are getting along."

"I'll keep that in mind, Sam."


	5. 5.10.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael musing on who he could have been and what it means to be a better man.

5.10.3

Spies, sociopaths, and actors all have one thing in common. They live on lies. This can have an unfortunate side effect; it can be very hard to find the real man under the lies. 

Spies, in particular, tend to come in two kinds. The man who is so solidly himself that he can slip into and out of anyone else, without it ever touching him. Sam's that kind of man. He's always Chuck because Chuck, for all of his different covers and flavors, is just a series of different facets of Sam. Lives Sam never got to live. Mike likes to think he's this kind of man, too. 

Though he's afraid he's part of the second group.

The second group is like a room full of mirrors. They reflect whatever gets near, over and over and over, distorting and changing as the light bounces around, but they have no image of their own. Take away the person in the room, the inspiration, and all that is left is emptiness. Those men can't stop the game, because if they stop, if they ever find themselves without a role to play, there's nothing else to keep them going. 

"Figure out who you are..."

Michael can hear Father Guier's voice in his mind as he lies in bed next to Fiona. How hard can that be?

He's Michael Westen, super-spy extraordinaire. The guy who was so good at his job he got burned so that they could use him as a weapon. He's the guy who fixes the problem, no matter how bad the problem is or how impossible it looks to fix.

He thinks about that for a minute and comes up with a question. Is that who he is or what he does? And, on a more basic level, is there a difference?

He is Madeline's son, Nate's brother, Sam and Jesse's friend, and, he quirks a smile at this, Fi's man. Better. More of who he is and not what he does. Sort of. It's how he relates to people. Who is he when he's by himself?

He looks at Fi. She booted Sam and Jesse out at 1:00, saying that they were never going to find what they needed to in those numbers unless they all got some sleep. And she was right. When you can't focus on the paper because you're eyes are too tired, it's time to get some sleep.

Who would he be without Fi? 

Find a version of yourself you want to be, not who she wants you to be. But if she wasn't part of the equation, who would he want to be? 

No one. 

If she hadn't been there after he was burned, he would have been... somewhere between rage and revenge, drifting without any better purpose.

He would have been Simon. 

He shudders at that, one of the fears that have haunted him for years now, and curls around her. 

He is Fi's man, Sam and Jesse's friend, Nate's brother, and Madeline's son. And for as much as being a better man for himself may be the goal, he's sure that if they hadn't been there, if it had just been him, he would have had no desire to be a better man. He'd be somewhere between Simon and Larry.

And now Simon is in Gitmo, and Larry's in an Albanian prison, and he was better at the game than either of them, so the idea of who he could have been without the people in his life is something he doesn't want to think about.


	6. 5.11.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bit of Better Halves between getting out of Venezuela and landing in Miami, or the reason for the dopey grin on Mike's face.

5.11.1

"Michael McBride would have had me twice by now," Fi whispers low in his ear as she snuggles close in the seat next to him, waits for the auto save on his computer to finish, and closes the laptop.

"Fi..."

"He wouldn't have cared at all about the fact that we're in a plane full of people or that he had a report due."

"Unfortunately for you, you're on a plane with Brendan Jensen." But she's right. He wouldn't have. Michael McBride would have taken her hand, walked, boldly, to the loo, opened the door for her, and had her up against the door. Michael McBride cared bugger all for whatever the other people in the plane thought.

Alas, Michael Westen isn't Michael McBride. Not anymore. Not the least of why is because Michael McBride was 36 and Michael Westen is 45, and that almost decade has had an impact. He's a little slower, he doesn't heal up as quickly, he's a bit softer around the middle, and while Michael McBride could handle twice in one day pretty easily, and on one extremely memorable occasion, three times, twice in one day is a very special occasion for Michael Westen.

Though, with the adrenaline from fighting off the Russians still lingering, and the remembered feel of the quick, up against the wall screw they got in between getting back to the hotel and running to the plane, he's thinking that today might indeed be a very special occasion. And, even if it's not for him, there's no reason why it can't be for Fi.

Not like there's much else to do. The report is basically written; he's just double checking it. They're in the air and won't be in Miami for more than five hours. Hours that he could use to do something fun. Hours that he could use to try and be a better boyfriend, or, feeling the ring on his finger, husband.

He puts the laptop into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him, and shifts in his seat a bit. Fi gets the idea of what he's trying to do, and stands up. He rests so his back is against the arm of the chair and the window. Michael stretches one leg along the line where the seat and the backs of the seats meet, and lets the other fall to the side.

Fi smiles, grabs a blanket from overhead, and settles herself between his legs, her back against his chest.

Thank the CIA they're in first class. And thank God it's an almost empty flight. They've got plenty of room, and no one is in the seats across the aisle. 

"Pillows?" he asks her. 

She flashes him a slightly annoyed look, but grabs two pillows for him. Another difference between Michael Westen and Michael McBride. McBride wouldn't have cared about the arm of the chair digging into his back. Westen, on the other hand, has had enough bruised and broken ribs to appreciate a nice, soft backrest for something like this.

Fi resettles herself between his legs. He makes sure the blanket is over both of them, and not so snug as to show what his hands might or might not be doing under there. 

She sighs, relaxes against him, and closes her eyes. He strokes her neck, kisses her ear, and also relaxes back for a moment. They could be taking a close and snuggly nap.

"Have you how?" he asks, voice low, almost drowned out by the rumble of the plane's engine, his Irish accent, which occasionally comes out for playtime, audible. 

He slips his hand under her pants, appreciating how roomy they are for the first time, and begins to lightly stroke her through her panties. Soft, gentle strokes, only his fingers moving, the rest of his hand and arm still.

"Would we go to the loo, lock the door, and then, once in there, you'd back up against the door and I'd wrap your legs around my hips? The kind of fast, hard shag where we just push clothing aside, because taking it off takes too long?"

She breathes deeply, and one of her hands clenches on his thigh. Westen doesn't usually talk in bed, but she absolutely loves it when he does. McBride, on the other hand, did have a penchant for narrating the action, and that's how he knows she loves it. And why, though it doesn't happen as often as it used to, it still does. 

"Or would you have me? I'd be back against the door, you'd sit on the loo, pull me out, and suck me down?" He feels his own body stir a bit at that idea. It has been an awfully long time since they've done that.

"Of course, if you did that for me, I'd return the favor." He pulls her panties to the side, and slips his middle finger along her clit. It's a slow and firm stroke. Mostly pressure, very little friction. He knows he can't get her off doing that, but he can drive her crazy. He can have her squirming and moaning and all but begging him to just go a little faster if he works at it.

And he wants to work at it. "I'd back you up against the door, tug these trousers down, prop one leg on the sink, and pull your knickers to the side with my teeth. Then I'd slip my tongue against you, rubbing in slow, lazy circles, feeling your hands clench in my hair and your legs tremble."

His fingers move just barely faster, a hint of slide to go with gentle but firm pressure. "Would you like that, my beauty?"

She's squirming against him. The motions are still slow and small, trying to look like they're just getting a bit of a nap, not shagging on the plane. But she rocks her hips minutely, trying for a bit more friction, just a little more to help get her over the edge. Her hips squirming against him, his hand on her, and his words are all combining to make sure that today will indeed be a very special occasion.

"Or, how about we start that way? How about I run my tongue along you, savoring your taste, until you're clenching and twitching around me, and then I stand up and slip into you. Then I can feel your beautiful quim pulsing around me as I pound hard and fast into you, finishing us both off."

She moans at that. It's a tiny sound, barely audible, he more feels it through his chest than hears it. "You like that idea, do you? Want me, fast and hard, inside of you? Just like this afternoon, in the hotel, where I pinned you up against the wall and slid into you so fast it made us both groan." He speeds up his fingers.

"The whole ride back I was wishing you had worn a skirt. Would have pulled over, bent you over the seat, and had you then and there if you had been wearing a skirt."

Violence might be foreplay for Fi. And it's not precisely that for Michael. But he's not unaffected by the adrenaline and blood lust that a good fight brings up. Plus, he does love being able to come in, guns blazing, and save the day. Fighting with Fi at his side, knowing she's hot and wet and wants him, well, that is foreplay for him. Quality time, indeed!

He lowers his head an inch further, so his lips brush against her ear while he continues to whisper. "Can you not picture it, luv? In the Hummer, kneeling on the floor, one of your legs up on the seat, me right behind you, and deep inside, while my fingers dance over you." And with that he speeds all the way up, no more of this teasing, slow pressure. If anyone were to look, they could see his arm and hand moving. He shifts his leg, bringing the blanket up a bit further, hiding his actions.

"Can you feel my breath on your neck, my hand on your nipple, the other on your clit, and I slip inside, filling and stretching you? I can feel you, your body tight and tense, hot, aching on the edge of climax, needing just a bit more, a bit faster." His fingers run faster, and the other hand snakes to her shirt, stroking her nipple through the fabric.

He can imagine it. He can almost feel it. Her body, so wet and hot and tight around him. She'd be rocking fast, hands clenched against the seat as a fine sheen of sweat covered her skin. He can feel her, taste the sex on her skin, and he's wishing they had gone to the bathroom, because right now he's hard as a rock and really, really wants to feel her climax on him.

She shudders and twitches, her body jerking slightly, and he slows his fingers. He holds her, feeling her muscles ripple under his fingers, enjoying the way she goes completely limp after climaxing, and, like always, feels ridiculously proud that he was able to do this for her. 

They stay that way for a few minutes. He feels her heart beat and breath slow. 

He slips his hand out of her pants and licks his fingers off as she watches. She smiles up at him, her naughty, Cheshire-cat grin, and he knows he's going to like what comes next.

"Give me one of your socks."

He's glad she thinks of this ahead of time. Because one thing he absolutely hates is having to stop when he's about to climax. He's also glad she's thought far enough ahead that he's not going to end up spending the next six hours in soggy and then crusty trousers. He hasn't come in his pants since he was sixteen and fumbling with his first girlfriend in the backseat of a stolen car. The orgasm was great. The cold, sticky, everyone-can-see-what-we've-been-up-to mess in his pants wasn't. When it started to dry was worse. 

He slips off a shoe and pulls the sock off his left foot. 

Fi shifts around so she's leaning on her side against his chest. He crooks the leg against the back of the seat higher than her shoulders, so that the blanket drapes over both of them, and leaving no tell-tale bulges. 

The noise of the plane drowns out the sound of his zipper, but he can feel her hands on his trousers, and the too fast, not nearly hard enough brush of her fingers as she slips him out.

She shifts again a bit, and he's wondering what she's doing because whatever it is doesn't involve touching him when her hand, wet and slick, curls around him.

Two thoughts hit at once. Her hand is slick with her juices, and that makes him that much harder. She's not going for slow or easy with this. This is about wrapping that delicious hand of hers around him, and stroking him fast, fingers gloriously tight. 

It doesn't take long, three minutes, maybe five? She hasn't given him a hand-job since they were in Ireland, but she's certainly not forgotten how he likes to be handled. Sure, he prefers mouth or pussy, but what she's doing is making his body light up, and his hips want to thrash and thrust as hard as he can.

He doesn't. He forces himself to relax. They're sleeping, right? Just getting a little nap. His head droops back against the window, his eyelids slide shut, and he lays there, trying to move as little as possible and just let her tip him over the edge.

It hits him hard. The pleasure is somehow sharper and more diffuse. Like, because he can't move, because all of the muscles in his body are holding very still, that all the nerves have lit up and danced with hot little tingles to compensate.

A minute or two later, as his heart calms down, and the muscles in his legs and abdomen stop twitching, he feels her zip him back up, and tuck something, probably the sock, into his pocket.

And then, they do nap.

He wakes at some later point. They haven't started to land, yet, so he knows they're still at least an hour out. Fi's still asleep, and he doesn't feel any desire to wake her up by shifting around so he can get at his computer. 

She's curled against him, left arm flush on his chest. He enjoys it. They aren't big cuddlers. Touch between them tends to be limited to sex, first aid, training fights, and the occasional don't-you-dare-die-on-me goodbye kiss. 

He gently traces her hand with his, and feels the ring on her finger. Mrs. Jensen, for the next few hours.

He remembers the look she gave him when he tucked the rings into her hand. He knows she would like to get married, which is something he finds both comforting and terrifying.

Comforting: He knows they're bound to each other. When she jumped into that shed, there for his, and when she ran to him, her, last stand, that said it all. How much more married can you be than that? And he knows, no matter what, he will be there for her. Strickler is dead because he tried to get between them, and anyone else who tries will suffer a similar fate. So, in many ways, how could married be any different?

Terrifying: What does he know of happy marriages? Nate and Ruth might be the closest he can think of, and if they make it to their second anniversary, he'll be shocked. And, though he might not be the poster child for well-adjusted mental health, even he knows that they don't exactly have a healthy relationship. This whole can't-live-without-you thing probably isn't good. 

When he thinks about it, he doesn't want her to die for him, and he's not sure there's any way to avoid that, beyond keeping breathing himself. And he's fairly sure it's not a good thing that if something happens to her, he'll start killing people and probably won't stop until Sam and Jesse take him out. 

Though, it's not like getting married, or not being married, changes that. 

He fiddles with his ring, knowing there will never be another woman for him. And he's also sure, that like talking to a counselor, he'd have an easier time setting himself on fire than slipping a ring on her finger and letting everyone on earth see something that intimate about him. He has a hard enough time calling her his girlfriend. He doesn't want the world to know what he loves, because loving something publicly is far too dangerous.

He sighs, holds her close, smells her hair, and thinks about talking to Father Ian. Step one wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be. Maybe admitting to the world that this is his woman wouldn't be either. After all, not like anyone who might be gunning for him doesn't know about her. The whole living together thing isn't precisely subtle. 

Who knows? Maybe he might try holding her hand, without her taking his first, the next time they go somewhere.


	7. 5.12.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of silliness.

5.12.1

He walks up the stairs to the loft with a goofy smile on his face. More "connecting" tonight. Oh yeah, he can get behind that. 

Pearce is in the loft, and with that a sense of foreboding begins. This can't be good. But he puts his game face on, just because it's not good doesn't mean it might be personally bad for him.

Or it could be very, very bad.

His blood froze when he saw the Charger on the screen. Everything in the world just went wrong.

Later, in the backseat of the armored SUV, feeling utterly deflated, wondering how today could get any worse, a thought hits. When he gets to wherever they're taking him, they're going to go through his pockets and find a semen-soaked sock. 

It's official; things are now worse. He debates trying to sneak his hand into his pocket and shove the sock between the car seat cushions, but Pearce is glaring at him, and has been the entire ride. 

He hears car engines revving, and catches a small flash of blue out of the corner of his eyes.

Maybe things are about to get better.


	8. 5.12.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scene that really should have been there.

5.12.2

Less than a second after Anton left the loft, they snapped out of shock mode and into plan mode. There was no way, no way at all, that they were going to let this psychopath just walk in and destroy everything.

Sam and Jesse were there in a less than half an hour, and by then Fi had a bag packed.

The plan was very easy, get Fi out of the US, to a non-extradition country, take everything to Pearce, and take down Anson. A few weeks, they'd get it all sorted out, and Fi could come back. Anson's leverage only worked as long as she was at risk, and as long as she was out of the country, outside the reach of US law, Fi was safe.

Sure, she's not thrilled about running. And no, he doesn't want to say goodbye to her. But they're both a lot less thrilled about what Anson will decide Michael has to do to keep her out of jail. And they are also sure that if she gets out of the country, this parting will be a lot shorter than the alternative.

"Here's all I could get." Sam hands Fi a wad of bills. "This is everything I had stashed and Elsa had in reserves. It should get you through until you can get some work of your own." Fi holds the bills, knowing it has to be close to ten thousand dollars. She also knows that'll last a whole lot longer than a few weeks.

Sam then hands her a manila folder. "I've always had emergency, back-up documents for all of us, but I had hoped we wouldn't ever need them. You're Elizabeth Galt, born in Glasglow, to American parents. You've been in the US, New York City, for the last thirty years. It's not a great cover, but it should hold long enough to get you wherever you need to go."

Jesse hands her a very heavy bag. "I couldn't get you all of your favorites, but here's the top of the list." She opens it and sees a selection of lovely guns, a few blocks of C4, det cord, a back-up set of lock picks, and five burner phones. "I know it's not everything you'll need, but hopefully it'll be enough so that you can get what you need later."

"If you drop me on an abandoned island with det cord, C4, five guns, and phones, and I can't survive, I don't deserve to live." She smiles at Jesse and hugs him, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Michael hangs up his phone. "Boat's on the way." One of Fi's gun runner buddies has a shipment going out tonight. A quick detour to pick her up isn't too much to ask. Especially seeing what goodies she's willing to offer for a trip to... wherever.

That's part of this. None of them know where she's going. She doesn't know yet, either. That's the point. No one would know. You can't tell what you don't know. If somehow this can't be fixed—Say, for example, it is illegal, no matter why you did it, to blow up a friendly government's consulate, and the powers that be are not willing to cut any sort of deal—none of them can turn Fi in. And if it looks like they may end up doing time for aiding and abetting, well, Sam's got their escape packages ready to run, too.

Michael looks at the bags, and at Fi flipping through the information on Elizabeth Galt. _I will fix this!_ And one day, when this is fixed, he'll start calling those phones, all of them, as many times as necessary, and she'll come back and...

Fi hugs Sam. Kisses him on the cheek, too, and Michael sees the tears starting in both of their eyes. "We'll get you back. You won't even have time to miss us," Sam whispers to her. She hugs him a little tighter, and then grabs the bag Jesse gave her.  
Michael takes her other bags and heads to the Charger.

They drive in silence. He doesn't know what to say. He's not entirely sure he can say anything without breaking into tears. Tactics. He can always talk tactics. 

"The New York Times. There's almost always a copy of the New York Times around somewhere. When it's safe to come home, I'll start running an ad for you. A loft in Miami, view of the canals. You'll know it when you see it. That way, if you're somewhere the phones don't work, or if you lose them or something..."

She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back. "I'll come home, Michael."

He breathes deeply. "I know." 

The light turns red, and he leans over to kiss her. 

"Fi... if I can't..."

"You'll fix it, Michael. You always do."

"Yeah. But... If..." He can't finish that thought, so skips to the next one. "No matter what, I'll find you. Either you'll get back here, or I'll get there. I'll find you."

The light shifts to green, and he puts the car back into drive. They say nothing the rest of the ride, but her hand doesn't leave his.

He's standing next to her, arms around her shoulders, her head on his chest, and the breeze over the ocean whispers around them. A few small lights, the boat, are moving closer. And with them, the sense of something cherished coming to an end much too soon.

He kisses her again, lips soft and sweet, laced with bitter tears not-quite shed, wishing that he could say something. Something important, something for her to hold close and remember while they're apart. But he doesn't have the words. Can't—for all his fast talk skill and ability to come up with the exact right thing at the exact right time—find something that covers this, that makes this right or... 

The sound of footsteps on the dock alerts both of them to something very wrong.

"Lovely night for a stroll, don't you think?" Anson asks. "It's not; however, a lovely night for a sail. In fact, I'd say tonight would be a terrible night for sailing."

The boat that had been coming closer, offering hope to getting out of this, blossomed into a golden orb of flame haloed by smoke.

Anson shook his head. "Nope, not a good night for sailing, at all."

He turns toward Michael and Fi, both staring dumbfounded at the smoldering wreckage of her ticket to safety. "Michael, I understand you had to try to fight this. It's natural. You've overcome or outsmarted everyone else in the organization. You've wiggled out of every trap. But you need to understand this, I know you. And not the way Larry said he knew you. Larry never knew you. Larry saw a mirror image of himself cloaked in your skin. No Michael, I know you. I know what you are going to do, how you are going to do it, and why. 

"So, I want you to understand this, every idea you've had to get out of this, I've already had. Every contact you think is safe, I'm watching. You are going to do what I want you to do. Fi is going to help. And if you don't, she's going to go to jail for the rest of her life, and then I'll start in on your mom, and after that Sam, because there's a man with more than one skeleton in his closet. Nate is next. His lovely wife, you don't want to know what I've got on her, but I can assure you, a string of abusive foster care families for Charlie will be the best possible outcome if I have to get that far down on the list of people I can use to hurt you.

"You will do what I tell you to, Michael, because otherwise you will learn, first hand, that you've never even suspected what real pain is, but when I'm done with you, you will know.

"Now, back to the loft with you. I'll see you in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the episode that got me writing this series. Since 5.9 I'd been feeling like there was a lot missing in this season, and then we get to 5.12 and Mike and Fi just go along with Anson, and with that, my suspension of disbelief snapped with an audible twang.
> 
> I could not believe that Mike, no matter how badly shell shocked, sits back and says, "Okay, I'll do whatever it is." without planing ways to get out of it at the same time. But hey, maybe it's possible, and as season five and six have continued, Mike in full on shock mode is becoming more and more the norm. That said, I don't believe Fi, Jesse, or Sam didn't say, "Whoa, working for Anson, very bad idea! Let's go stash Fi, get the goods on Anson, and then shut his ass down." Now as it turned out, Fi did eventually do that, but when I was writing this, that was still six episodes off. 
> 
> Anyway, I feel like if there had been a scene like this one, somewhere in 5.12 or 5.13 the rest of the season would have made a whole lot more sense.


	9. 5.12.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts in the dark after Anson has gone.

How many layers were there? How far in advance was this planned?

Why did he wake up in Miami?

That makes perfect sense now. Five years ago, as his Mom pointed out, he had no one. A few friends, like Sam, but no one who he cared enough about to betray the US for. There was no one who could be used as leverage against him.

Why was Fi there when he woke? Had that been manipulated? How could Anson's information be that good?

But when he thinks about it, he's sure it had to have been. Fi's contact information was still in his wallet. True. Her contact information in Ireland. He left in 2000, before ubiquitous cell phones with portable numbers. There was absolutely no way any member of the Glenanne clan who might have picked up that call was just going to give information on how to get a hold of Fi to a stranger. Even if it was a stranger saying she was calling about Michael Wes... Oh hell. No one in that motel knew he had been Michael McBride, and no one in Ireland knew Michael Westen.

Everything was manipulated. That far out the pawns were being put in place. 

In 2006, there was no one in Michael Westen's life he loved. He'd try to fix whatever it was, that was his duty to his friends and family, but there were lines he wasn't willing to cross. Duty will only get you so far, and that's where his duty stopped.

Love on the other hand...

Love makes good tactics hard. Love makes cold decisions difficult and hot ones fast and easy. And love has put him in a terrible position. Put all of them in a terrible position. Starting with the lingering affection that kept him from killing Larry the first time he came back from the dead, and ending with Fi pushing that detonator. Love's screwed them all this time.

Love makes him want to break Anson's neck the next time he sees him, and get out of the States with Fi before his mysterious contact with the evidence even knows Anson's gone. Love means that plan doesn't work, because his Mom would understand them running, except he wouldn't be able to tell her about it. They'd just vanish one day, and it'd hurt her so badly. Love means his mom crying on Sam... Sam, who'd be questioned endlessly about where they might have gone. Sure, Sam can hold his own, but if there are any more worms in the wood, anyone beyond Anson, and he's not willing to believe Anson's the only one left at this point—this damn organization has more layers than an onion—Sam might end up in a lot of trouble for aiding and abetting.

Tactics. Organization analysis. What he's good at. Go cold, put love and rage aside, and think.

Anson and Management spent half a lifetime building up this organization. At its height, it had members in every major government agency doing God alone knew what. And now it's only Anson and Michael. And maybe Fi.

Management is gone.

Management. Michael can feel that's a key to what is going on.

Anson recruited the people. Management ran the ops.

Michael smiles, a cold, hard smile that no one in his right mind wants pointed at him. Anson may indeed be smart, and he's a damn good reader of people, but he's not Management. He's not the one who makes the traps and catches the flies. He's the guy who provides the bait.

Michael knows a few things. Management is gone. They didn't get him. He's just gone. Assumed dead. Hell, he might even be dead. It wouldn't be impossible. But no matter what, Management is not involved in this, because Management was cold. He understood that if everything goes haywire, and the whole world is upside down, you vanish and you stay vanished, and you don't go out for petty revenge.

Like love, revenge makes cold decisions difficult and hot ones easy. Anson's made a hot, irrational decision. He should have stayed gone. He should have vanished like Management, off to the ethers, and slowly began recruiting again. If what he wanted was his power, his organization, his ability to make pawns dance to his tune, he should have never gone anywhere near the one person who has a proven track record of taking that organization down. It's bad tactics.

And with that comes a moment of perfect clarity. He's had a few of them over the years. The night before he joined the army was one. Joining the CIA was another. When Strickler said Fi was his past. When he handed Jesse the NOC list. Yes, he's had them before, but somehow this one is sharper, born of a crisis deeper and more personal than any he's dealt with before. 

Laying there in the dark next to Fi, both of them awake but not sleeping, Michael knows who he is. He knows who he wants to be, and he hopes, harder than he's ever hoped for anything, that he'll get the chance to be that man.

Fear is gone. Rage and fury has destroyed it, destroyed the capacity for it. In one stroke, Anson killed his ghosts.

Michael is violence, balanced by skill, bound by honor, and focused narrowly, aimed at the men in this world who treat people like pawns. He's done being a pawn. He's done being a weapon for others. He will be his own weapon, and he will aim at the people who run their own games, ruining lives right and left, not caring about those lives, because the big picture is what interests them.

He thinks that man is someone Fi will like. They can be Robin Hood together, right the wrong, free the enslaved, and go in and save the day when the day needs saving.

As long as he can be smarter, harder, and more determined than Anson. As long as he can end this and get free to be that man.

He closes his eyes, swallows, and buries the hate. Anson is hot, so Michael needs to be cold. He needs to be a better tactician than Anson, because it's entirely possible he's not smarter, and extremely likely he doesn't read people as well.

Anson will die, and he's going to be the man who does it, but first he's got to make sure his family is safe.

He snuggles up next to Fi. She's a little surprised to see him do that. Neither of them had been in a cuddly sort of mood. But he wraps his arms around her, his fingers in her palm, the blanket over both of them, and begins to tap what he's thinking, in Morse code, into her hand.

I-u-n-d-e-r-s-t-a-n-d she taps back. It's an awfully slow way to communicate. But there's no way Anson can pick it up with a mic or see it with whatever surveillance gear he might have set up.

Sam's going to have a heart attack when he sits next to him at Carlito's and puts his hand on his knee to start sending signals.


	10. 5.16.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even more musing in the dark.

Eight years. His father died eight years before he got back to Miami.

Management and Anson played the long game longer than anyone else he's ever even heard of.

The worst part is he's not sure if he's grateful Anson killed the son of a bitch, or sorry he never got the chance to.

No, the worst part is not knowing if his father actually did want to say he was sorry, or if that's just Anson pulling his strings. Probably just pulling his strings. Frank Westen crying in his drink over a lost relationship with his son is something that Michael literally cannot imagine.

He pushes it aside, or tries to. He's been wandering about in a daze, trying to process this, or trying not to, and doing a piss poor job of looking like he's not affected by something.

Fi's saying something to him.

He half pays attention, trying to get his mind away from this, and is failing utterly.

She touches him. "What is it, Michael?"

He shakes his head. Part of him wants to tell her. Part of him is trying. But his words vanish, skitter away from him, hiding. He can't say this, not to her, not to anyone. Not yet.

He half smiles, and she knows something's up, but she also knows him well enough to know that smile means he can't or won't talk. She squeezes his hand, and they settle down for bed.

Eight years.

Anson pegged him eight years before he was burned. Before that. He would have had to have seen something, decided Michael was worth it. Then do the research, and do it long enough for his father to become suspicious. Ten years? Maybe. How long did Anson spend with his father? Did he actually spend any time with him? Was this just a lie?

Anson said Management was against choosing him. That could explain the down time. Anson started in on Michael, began getting his information, and Management nixed it. Then... eight years later changed his mind?

Maybe...

That doesn't feel right.

Eight years later Anson finally convinced him?

No, that's not right either.

There's something, just beyond his grasp. A piece of the puzzle. He closes his eyes, forces himself to relax and focus. Management didn't want him. Anson did. Eight years between killing his father and seeing his mother. Management ran the ops. Anson found the people.

It hits him hard enough that he sits bolt upright in bed.

"Michael?" He can hear the concern in Fi's voice.

He gets up quickly, and turns on the stereo. Fi's music pounds through the loft.

"Management vanished," he whispers to her.

"Yes."

"Anson said Management didn't want me for this."

"Yes."

"Anson told me he talked to my father. Talked to him a lot. Talked to him so much he got suspicious about what was going on. Anson killed my father." Fi inhales, ready to say something about that, but he keeps talking fast, not wanting to focus on that. "That was thirteen years ago, Fi. I didn't get burned for eight more years at that point. Because Management didn't want me. He knew Fi. He knew I'd destroy them. He could see that I'd kill this organization. Five years ago, I think Management decided he wanted out.

"That's why he vanished. That's why he finally agreed to me. He wanted to kill the monster he gave birth to. Think about it. At any time, when I was becoming too much trouble to be worth it, he could have had me killed, or stuck in prison. He had me in prison, and yet I still got out. No... This was intentional. Management wanted out. He wanted the organization dead. And he picked me to do it."

Fi thinks about that. "I like it. But, does that mean Anson's using you to rebuild? And if so, are you being used to just get him his resources, or is he grooming you to take Management's place? Does he need someone to run ops for him?"

"I think so. But it won't be me. I don't think he's crazy enough to try to blackmail me into running his organization. Even he knows there are lines I won't cross, and that I'll make his ops fail. No, he's using me to get into a position where he can find a new Management."

"So, knowing that, what can we do with it?"

"I don't know. Not yet. But I think this is important. I think this is the key to getting to him."


	11. 5.18.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching Fi turn herself in.

Twenty more minutes. All he needed was twenty more minutes.

Once the op was done, everything was in chaos. If he could have been a little faster, if Fi had been a little more patient, he could have gotten to her and they could have run.

He stands in traffic, the words of her note burned into his mind, and wants to cry or scream or shoot something or...

Twenty more minutes. He could have gotten to her. He's got a top secret level clearance, a CIA ID that's real and half a dozen other government IDs if that one wasn't optimal, and a pair of handcuffs. He could have been "taking her in," if anyone asked, gotten her on a plane, and they could have run.

They could have gotten away. Hidden her somewhere safe, and then gone for Anson's jugular. 

Twenty more minutes. She's no longer in view, and he's standing in the middle of traffic, starting to attract attention.

He's dropped the note, and scrambles to find it. He can't lose her words.

Sam finds him in the Charger, and all he wants to do is fight. He wants to pound on Sam, break him, not just for letting Fi go, but also for trying to tell him that ridiculously lame lie. 

Fi knocked Sam out? No way. Fi hit Sam so he'd have a plausible explanation for why he was handcuffed to the wall, sure. Michael believes that. He does not for one second believe that Fi got the drop on Sam and coldcocked him, or that Sam didn't know exactly what was going to happen when he got her purse.

But beating on Sam won't fix anything, and it won't make anything better, and Anson's in the wind, so they have to move.


	12. 6.1.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week after Fi goes to jail.

The first night he, Sam, Jesse, and Pearce dissected every piece of paperwork Anson had in his office, his home, his personal computer, everything.

They have a list of people to watch out for. People who Anson may be blackmailing, or may, like that monster he sent to Maddie, be using to destroy other lives.

But there's nothing on Rebecca in any of the paperwork they find, which doesn't bode well for the idea that anyone they've pegged now is likely to be one of Anson's pawns.

They are not any closer to finding Anson. His tracks are too well covered for that.

On the upside, Jesse remembers the account where the money went, so they begin tracking it, working on cutting off Anson's funding.

Dawn breaks, and with it they break up.

Michael does not go back to the loft. He goes with Sam and crashes at his place. Hours later, he's three quarters asleep and half hears Sam explain to Elsa what's happened.

At lunch time they get together again, and go back to work.

 

The second night Sam took him to his mom's house, certain that Mike in the loft, alone was an awfully bad idea.

She fed him something, he has no idea what it was, no idea of much of anything that happened that night. Mostly he stumbled around in a haze of shell-shocked failure, vaguely aware of Sam answering his mom's questions in a soft voice.

Lunch to dinner and then beyond, and nothing. They've got no leads, no ideas, though the money is once again flagged. Now there's just waiting, hoping that Anson's crazy or sloppy enough to actually touch that account.

But Anson isn't lazy or sloppy.

The next morning he woke up in his old room, his tongue coated with foul tasting fuzz and a headache that felt like it was going to drill out of his skull and make his left eye explode. He's awfully sure Sam slipped him something in his dinner. Hangovers don't feel like this, but even if they did, he knows he didn't drink any alcohol last night.

 

The third night he takes her pillow off the bed, and retreats to the sofa on the loft. He wants her scent but can't stand to be in their bed alone.

He's halfway asleep when he realizes he's sulking about being alone in their home, their comfortable, free, open, and filled-with-good-things home, and she's locked in a prison cell.

He spends the next two hours beating the absolute hell out of the punching bag.

When his fingers are black and blue and will no longer form a fist, he collapses onto the sofa, holding her pillow, and falls into an exhausted sleep.

 

The fourth night, ghosts of Fi seem to whisper around him. He feels steeped in the lack of her. The flowers are starting to wilt. He waters them. Her snow globes catch the light and shine it at him while he walks from the shower to the sofa. The handcuffs, reproaching him for trying to cage her, mocking him for failing her, are still hanging from the chain link wall.

 

The fifth night he almost punches Jesse when he takes Fi's last meal out of the refrigerator, wondering what's making that odd smell. It's Chinese takeout, long past its prime. They hadn't been able to eat it together. He'd been running back and forth to Tampa, and she had some spare time, so she got them dinner. He got home later, and sat with her, at the table, talking about what Vaughn had told him, eating his half. She'd finished hers hours earlier, tucking the remains away for a quick lunch.

Jesse looks at him sadly, while Sam says, "Mikey, it's growing mold. She's not going to want it when she gets back."

 

The sixth night, he spends going through Anson's files, again. And again. And yet one more time. And once after that. There has to be a crumb somewhere. Something, anything, that can open this up.

He's not really reading them. He's not really seeing the page in front of him.

Michael's hand strays to his pocket, touches the folded paper in it. He keeps her note with him at all times, though he hasn't re-read it since sitting in the Charger. Sometimes he takes it out of his pocket and runs his fingers over the words. Usually he'll just touch it, and then start cursing about this whole thing.

She's trapped because of him. And he has to get her out, but he's got nothing.

The man who could fix anything, for anyone, can't do this. There are no leads. Pearce can't help him. No one at Langley is willing to touch this.

He can't even find out which prison she's in. But he knows the first thing he's going to do when he gets that information is start on a plan to break her out. One way or another, Fi is getting out.

 

The seventh day, Sam brings him a letter, and with it, an idea of something that might help.


	13. 6.3.1

6.3 Last Rites: The whole crew (minus Fi, plus Nate and Maddie) help Pearce avenge her murdered fiancee. Once done, Mike finally gets to see Fi. Romantic interlude, including the story of how Fi and Mike met ensues.

6.3.1

Spies know that for all the high tech goodies, for all the almost magical gadgets that can save the day in a pinch, that when it comes down to it, the single most valuable skill they've got is the ability to talk.

The second most valuable skill is the ability to see what the person in front of you needs to hear.

She's clinging to the phone like it's a lifeline, and he knows that right now the only thing keeping her going is his voice.

So he talks about Ireland, and about how much he misses her, and this time, his tongue isn't bound and he does know what to say to give her hope. He knows what to say to make the darkness seem a bit less dark.

He tells her he loves her. Not in those specific words, and not because he can't say them, but because he won't. Not like this, not half-crying through a pane of glass. He promises himself he will tell her, in person, when they're both happy enough to smile, and preferably when they're both alone and naked as well.

He'll tell her when he can hold her close, smell her skin and hair, and see and hear and feel her respond to his words.

He'll tell her when she's free, and Anson's in the ground, and he's put this massive sea of crap behind them, and they can go off and be together.

He'll tell her when he can give it to her with the life, and the man, she deserves.


	14. 6.6.1

6.6 Shockwave: Michael and Co (Jesse, Pearce, and Nate) track down Anson and catch him. Nate gets killed by the mysterious sniper who blows a hole through him and Anson. With Anson down, Fi gets out of prison.

6.6.1

Something is wrong. Fi's been dreaming of this moment, both literally and figuratively, for weeks now. And in none of them was Michael looking like that.

He's not smiling. He should be smiling. There should be a wide, happy, and most importantly, genuine, grin on his face.

Sam and Jesse aren't smiling, either. Somehow that's worse. It's possible Michael might just be too emotional to smile. It's happened before. She's seen him at times where he gets that sort of shut down look on his face just so he doesn't break down.

But that's not Jesse, and it's really not Sam.

They're also hanging back too far. She understands them hanging back some, letting Michael get the first hugs in, giving them a little privacy for their first touch in weeks, but they're too far back. They should be coming up, too. There should be hugs and jokes and congratulations and celebration.

There should be joy here.

He's holding her, and it's all she's wanted for weeks, the memory of it keeping her going, but this is different, it's too intense, too raw. There's an almost tremor to his touch, and he's holding on a bit too tight.

"I was beginning to think you didn't need me." Something has to break the tension.

"I need you now more than ever." That didn't sound good. His voice is wrong. Like his touch it's too raw, too intense, and Jesse and Sam are still standing by the Charger. Still too far back. They should be coming up now.

Dread fills her as she asks, "Michael, what's wrong?"

His head presses against her shoulder, and she feels the almost tremor break into full on shaking. His tears are running over her shoulder, and she holds him, petting his back.

Finally Sam and Jesse come up.

She doesn't have to ask. Jesse tells her. "We got Anson. Actually, Nate got Anson. Found him, pulled his own gun on him, and had him waiting for us. We were walking toward them, all smiles and happy and then... Then some fucking asshole blew a hole through Anson, through Nate, through the goddamn steel sign behind Nate. The gun had to be the size of a fucking cannon. Anson's dead. Nate's"—He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, probably seeing it in his head again.—"dead."


	15. 6.6.2

6.6.2

It's a four hour ride home. There's not much talking. Sam's driving. Fi and Mike are in the back. She's got an arm around him, and he's holding her hand, rubbing his fingers along her palm from time to time.

She wishes they were home. Wishes for whiskey and tea, the way her family deals with tragedy.

"Does Madeline..." she lets the sentence trail off.

Michael nods. "She told me to leave."

She kisses his forehead. Her own mother didn't speak to anyone for three weeks after Claire died. Not even at the funeral. She just stood there, alternating between screaming tears and near catatonic silence.

Whiskey and tea didn't help much. There's only so much hurt they can numb, and that was too much. But eventually, gradually, very gradually, her mother came back. They held the wake a year to the day that Claire died, following the old tradition, and on that day, her mother did laugh, a little at least, at the funny stories.

She decides to visit Madeline tomorrow.


	16. 6.6.3

6.6.3

They go to the beach. Fi doesn't want to spend another minute indoors, and Michael's too far inside his own grief to have much in the way of plans.

There's a six pack of beer, nine yogurts, and two half-dead boxes of Chinese take-out in the fridge. She grabs some yogurt, two spoons, and a blanket. It wasn't the first meal home she was dreaming of, but it will do.

They get to the beach and eat quietly. When they finish they lay back, watch the sky, and listen to the waves.

"What did you do after Claire died?"

She tells him. Tells him about how the IRA was happy to get its hands on her. Fifteen-year-old Catholic school girls don't get searched all that carefully and can easily go places men who look like IRA members can't. She tells him about how much she loved it. Loved learning new skills, loved the power, loved the revenge.

She never told her mother, not specifically, what she was doing. But each time one of the men who killed Claire died, she handed her mother an obituary. Each time, her mother smiled a little more often, joked a little more loudly. Each time, she bought a brush of happiness to her mother at the cost of a man's life.

To this day, she doesn't regret that. She doesn't think she ever will.

And to this day, she'd have happily given it all up if she could have just not had that argument with Claire.

She kisses him when she says that, absolutely sure he's feeling the exact same way. Sure that he'd rather have Anson alive and her still in prison, if it meant Nate would be home and breathing.

And she doesn't disagree with that. Her freedom wasn't worth Nate's life.

This should have been the happiest night of their lives. Tonight should have been celebrations, dancing 'til dawn, with the whole family there. Tonight should have been joy, and love, and relief.

Instead they're lying on a blanket, seeing the lights of Miami reflected off the clouds, with the occasional glow of the moon visible where the clouds are blown thin.

There are no visible stars, and somehow that seems fitting.


	17. 6.7.1

6.7 Reunion. Michael and Fi are back together. Nate's dead. Madeline's taking it hard. And this one wraps with the funeral.

6.7.1

Michael doesn't like funerals. Granted, that's not a terribly unique sentiment. It's not like most people love a good funeral.

But he hates wakes.

And the wake for Nate is trying to kill him.

The only good thing about it is that his mom is talking to Fi. At least, he hopes that's a good sign, 'cause she certainly isn't talking to him.

Apparently, Nate had a rather large cohort of buddies who think the point of a wake is to get free drinks. They're circling the bar, sucking down booze like it's the day before Prohibition went into effect.

They're loud, drunk, and laughing. And for some god-forsaken reason they keep coming over to him, patting him on the back, and wanting to tell him stories about Nate in action. Most of these stories involve gambling, stealing cars, hookers or cocktail waitresses, and getting really drunk. Two of them have involved all five.

He's trying to hide. There's a booth in the back of the bar his mom rented for this, where he can see her and Fi. His mom is crying and drinking, probably not a good combination. Fi's petting her hand and pouring her more to drink.

Whiskey and tea, the Irish remedy for heartache.

He sees Sam and Jesse head his way, and while he's much happier with them nearby than a random collection of Nate's drunk friends, what he really wants is to leave here and be alone. Or maybe with Fi. But, really, alone sounds awfully good right now.

Sam's holding a bottle of scotch. It's not cheap stuff. But it's not the good stuff, either. It is, however, Nate's favorite.

Michael realizes this is probably the best scotch Nate ever had. Best he could ever afford.

Sam and Jesse sit down. Jesse puts down four glasses. Michael's wondering if the fourth is for Fi, but it doesn't look like she's about to join them anytime soon.

Sam pours. And gestures for all three of them to drink.

He does, feeling it slide down. Not liquid fire, but not hot silk either. Not much flavor one way or another. It's just sort of there.

"To Nate." Sam holds up the fourth glass to the sky, and then puts it back on the table. He refills the glasses, and they drink again.

Sam looks at Jesse, and Michael can see Jesse doesn't want to talk, but feels like he has to.

"Look, Mike, I want you to know, this wasn't your fault."

He can understand why Jesse doesn't want to say that. Lying to a friend is never fun. Of course it was his fault. He brought Nate along. He ordered him away. And he told him to go find Anson.

"Stop that." Sam knows him well enough to know what he's thinking, has been thinking since he got home. "Mikey, it was not your fault. Look, we all love Nate, you know that. But you also know he didn't do what you told him to. If he had just kept his eyes on Anson and, like you told him to, not approached him, he'd be fine."

"I was there Mike, and it was not your fault. Yeah, you were hard on him, and I know you wish you could take that back, but you didn't pull the trigger, and you weren't the one who got him in position to get shot. He did that himself."

"And brother," Sam says, pouring another drink for them. Mike downs it fast, not really tasting it. "If you keep blaming yourself, then you take away the last thing Nate ever did. Either he owns that moment, it's entirely his, his decision, his love for you and Fi, and his desire to be the hero shining through, or he's not really a person. He becomes just a thing, bounced around by fate and luck. And Mike, no matter what else Nate might have been, he wasn't just some helpless thing.

"Now, one last drink, and then I want you to get off your ass, stop blaming yourself, and put everything into finding Nate's killer, because we owe him that."

Sam pours one more round. "To burying the son of a bitch who killed Nate!"

Michael takes a deep breath, downs his fourth shot in ten minutes, and remembers why he loves Sam.

An hour later, when he's in the men's room, throwing up because four shots on top of the double scotch he been nursing through the first hour of the wake is way more alcohol than anyone his size should try to ingest in two hours, he remembers that Sam outweighs him by at least fifty pounds, and letting the guy with the cast-iron liver pour the drinks is an awfully bad idea.


	18. 6.7.2

6.7.2

Fi's known Michael for 13 years now, and until this night, she'd never seen him really drunk.

Tipsy, sure. Fake drunk, more times than she could count. Goofy and mellow, yep.

Needing to be carried up the steps to the loft, Sam on one side, her on the other, no.

Whiskey and tea might be her family's traditional cure for heart-ache, but apparently the Axe clan works on the theory of scotch and more scotch.

And Sam, with his near alcoholic level of tolerance and 230 plus pound body-weight, isn't precisely sober right now, either.

Though he didn't end up puking in the men's room. At least Michael had the good sense to realize he'd had way too much and get rid of it before it did any serious damage. The absolute last thing they need is Michael in the hospital with alcohol poisoning.

They get Mike into bed, and Sam calls Elsa. He's in no condition to drive and it's awfully late. He lets her know he's crashing here, and heads up to the sofa in the loft.

Fi goes to the sink and finds two pitchers. She fills both of them with water and takes one and a glass, putting it where Sam can get at it easily, and does the same for Michael.

She gets Aspirin next, and hands a glass of water and the Aspirin to Michael.

"Drink up."

"I'll be okay." His eyes are bloodshot, and he looks like hell. But that was true before he started drinking.

"I'm glad to hear it. Drink up anyway. Lots of water will help with whatever you didn't get out of you."

He shrugs and swallows the pills and drinks down the glass. She refills it and gestures for him to drink more.

He sits, back against the headboard, head lolled back, looking utterly defeated.

She sits next to him and holds his hand.

"Talk to me?" He's drunk enough; he might actually do it.

"My mom blames me."

Fi nods. She's not going to sugarcoat it or try to dismiss it. "Yep." Madeline spent quite a while talking to her about it, and she most certainly does blame Michael, and Fi, Sam, Jesse, the entire CIA, the universe in general, and herself in particular. In fact, the only person who didn't get a share of the blame was Nate.

"She's angry. And right now the one person she can't bear to be angry at is Nate, so everyone else is getting a share of it."

He limply squeezes her hand.

"It's probably going to get worse. Your mom's never struck me as the sit-there-and-take-it-passively-type. She's going to start hitting anyone nearby, and that probably means you."

"Great."

"Yeah. Lovely. When Claire died, once she started talking again, my mum said some really terrible things. People kept telling me, 'She doesn't mean it. It's just the anger.' They were half right, it was the anger. But she meant it, too. And whatever terrible things your mom says to you, she'll mean them. Eventually, she'll wish she didn't say them. But right now, she means it."

"What did she say to you?"

"That it was my fault. That if I had trusted you to fix it, I wouldn't have been in prison. That I'd have been there to back you up, not Nate. That the bullet should have ripped through me. Or that if I had done what you told me to do, let you die with Larry, that Nate would have been safe."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too. She'll regret saying it one of these days." She nudges the hand holding the glass and he drinks more.

"What did your mom say to you after Claire died?"

"Pretty much the same thing your mom did. That it was my fault. That she wished I had died in her place. That if I had just not had that fight, Claire wouldn't have stormed out and gotten shot. That Claire was her golden, perfect little girl and I destroyed her."

Michael winces and wraps an arm around her. He met Katherine Glenanne three times, and he can imagine her, all fire-y temper and shrill voice ripping a teenaged Fi into shreds.

But he also knew, that by the time he met her, close to fifteen years after Claire died, that she regained her humor, and her fire shone in sparkling eyes challenging him to treat her daughter properly, and joking with him, and the rest of the Glenannes, over pints after Sunday dinner.

"She apologized, years later. When I brought her the first obituary. She told me I was a good daughter, and that she was sorry she had ever said that. And she meant that, too. Eventually, your mom will apologize too, and when she does, she'll mean it. But right now, she wants everyone in the world to hurt as much as she does, and she's going to do everything she can to make sure that happens."

"So what do I do?"

"Be the punching bag. Know that this is about her feeling like she's got some control over what's going on. And most importantly, hunt down and kill the man who killed Nate."

"I can do that."

She kisses him. "And I'll be there to help."


	19. 6.8.1

6.8 Unchained. In order to get more information on Nate's killer Mike does a job for the FBI. Though he'd prefer she stay safe at home, Fi joins in and saves him about three times.

6.8.1.

Sitting in the Charger, Fi takes a deep breath and reminds herself that he's just lost his brother, is holding onto sane by his fingernails, feels like the world will explode if he loses anyone else, and on top of all of that, he's still dealing with the lingering traces of last night's almost alcohol poisoning.

She knows this. Just like she knows he picked a fight with her because that's easier than dealing with his fear.

And she knows it's natural to want to take what's precious and wrap it up nice and safe when you're scared.

But she really hopes he gets over wanting to treat her like a piece of fine china that needs to be swaddled in bubble wrap and hidden in a safe soon. Because if he keeps doing this it's going to drive her insane.

And more importantly, it's likely to get one of them killed.

She loves Sam, not that she'd ever say that. And she knows Jesse is very good at what he does. But she also knows that she's a better driver, better marksman, much better at explosives, and a better actor than either of them.

When Michael needs to bring his A game, he needs her.

And he needs to realize that, soon.


	20. 6.8.2

"And now, I would like to show you something else that you can't do without me."

It takes a second for Michael to understand what she's said. It takes another second for him to realize that, yes, he does want what she's offering.

It's not that Michael has a particularly complex or intricate sexuality, but he does require a certain level of relaxation and happiness to be even interested in sex, let alone function.

Fi's been home for five days, and, though he's slept curled around her each night, until that moment he's not felt anything that could be classified as sexual desire. Too much stress, too much sorrow, and too much focus on everything else has left sex way, way down on his to-do list.

And she's been sensitive to that. She's known him long and well enough to know that he doesn't switch gears from work to sex very quickly. And though this is the first time in their relationship he's been in mourning, it's not a stretch to think that's another sort of issue he'd have a hard time switching out of.

Basically Michael is capable of very high levels of focus, and this is a good thing. It's a good thing when he's on a job, because he's _on the job_. And it's a good thing when he's having sex, because having someone like Michael focused solely on making you feel good it a whole lot of fun. It's not so good if you want him to go from one to the other.

So in a nutshell, he needs a certain level of happy to want sex. Which is why a good deal of the make or break points in their relationship, the sex that's defined them and drawn them together has been tinged with adrenaline and spiced with euphoria.

And now, as she presses behind him, wrapping her arms around him, one hand slipping under his shirt to stroke his stomach, he does feel a hint of happiness. The job is done. They got a lead, granted not much of a lead, but more than they had before, on Nate's killer. And, a guy with the nickname "The Butcher" is going to prison for a long, long time.

They did something good today. Together.

And, while he vastly prefers the outfit she's got on now, a loose white tank top and denim shorts to the bra revealing-Lycra body suit she had on before, he certainly didn't mind the way that outfit clung to her. Having her step out of the Hyundai, shotgun in hand, looking like the personification of sex and salvation was pretty damn good, too.

He closes his hand around hers, slipping his fingers along hers, enjoying the feel of skin on skin.

They hold each other for a moment. Then he turns in her arms, picks her up, and puts her on the table.

He's kissed her since she's gotten back, but this is the first real kiss. The first touch of lips and tongue with intent behind it. This is the first touch that was about pleasure, not just surcease of pain. And while there is comfort in this touch, it's not about comfort.

She pulls his shirt over his head, hands skimming his arms and sides, familiar touches made new by time away.

His fingers dance over her skin. He knows it, better than his own, but he still relishes this chance to learn it again. He kisses each scar, kisses each tattoo.

He pulls off her shirt, and kisses her again, deeply, trying to put as much love and desire into his touch as he can.

She moans against him, nibbles his lower lip, and squeaks a laugh when he playfully pinches a nipple and tickles her ribs.

He smiles, wide and genuine. "I missed you so much."

And once again, she says, "Good."

He presses back in close, rubbing against her, feeling her breasts on his chest and her legs wrapped around his. He kisses her neck, and inhales deeply. "Missed your skin. Missed your scent."

She purrs at him.

"Missed the way you sound."

She palms him through his jeans. He closes his eyes and sighs, arching into her hand for more pressure. "Missed your touch."

She's right. This is something he can't, or at least won't, do without her. Not to say he can't figure out how to deal with his morning hard-on by himself, but he hasn't, not since she's been away.

Fi hops off the table, sliding down his body, and turns him so his back is against it. She pops the button on his jeans, tugging them down and off of him. He kicks his feet free, while she presses against him. The impossible softness of her stomach against his cock feels inordinately good.

Her mouth feels better.

His eyes close, and a soft, almost-pained sounding breath slips from between half-open lips. He's clutching the side of the table, and forces himself to look down and watch her do it.

Nothing else on earth looks this good. Her eyes are smiling up at him while she sucks. She pulls back, treats him to a full smile, and lets him watch her wet, pink tongue slip along his shaft. She places a swift, almost chaste kiss to the tip, and then swallows him to the base.

This time, the sound that slips out of him is neither soft, nor pained-sounding. This moan is one of pure desire and erotic pleasure.

"Fi!" She purrs again, the soft vibrations adding to the delight of her mouth on him, and he knows this is going to be done a whole lot faster than he wants it to be if she doesn't stop.

Two minutes of oral sex usually isn't enough to get him this close. But it's been an awfully long time, and he feels almost crazy with the intoxication of her skin on his.

Tomorrow, he'll let her do it as long as she likes, because he knows she loves laying him out and driving him completely insane with her mouth.

"Bed. Please." She looks up, almost disappointed, but then her grin is back, she knows good things are waiting for her in their bed.

He doesn't disappoint. He picks her up and carries her to the bed, and quickly gets her out of her shorts and panties.

Four weeks of prison means that she's not hairless. He doesn't know when she started waxing. She didn't when they lived in Ireland. Best of his knowledge, no one did in those days. But he does know that since they've been in Miami, she's been bare. But not today, soft, downy black curls greet his eyes, brush his lips, and tickle his nose.

It puts him in mind of the first time he skinned off her knickers, sunk to his knees, and kissed her properly.

She had groaned then, a sound that was almost surprised. And he wondered then, and has since, if he was the first man to do this for her. He doesn't want to ask, because he likes the idea that he was the first there, first to slip his lips along hers, stroke her clit with his tongue, and feel her hands fist in his hair as her legs grew tight around his shoulders.

He's not terribly possessive. Not a jealous man. But something about the idea that he may have been first resonates with him, fills him with a perverse pride.

Something keeps pulling at his mind as he kisses her. He tries to shut it down. He wants to be focused on her body, taste, the sounds she's making, and how knowing that he's the one doing this to her makes him feel. He wants to be entirely in this moment, in her body, but there's a niggling at the back of his mind and he can't place it.

It's got something to do with the fact that her skin isn't bare. Something about this is reminding him of...

Birth control! She handles that. He knows she's on the shot. Fond memories of "soothing" the spot on her hip where she gets the shot make him smile. He knows it last for ninety days. What he doesn't know is when the last shot was.

He also knows they've got no condoms in the loft.

He absolutely knows they can't risk getting pregnant.

"Michael?" He must have stopped dead while he was thinking about that, because she's propped herself up on her elbows and looking at him with concern.

"When was your last shot?"

She laughs. He thinks it's mostly relief that he's not worried about something else.

"I don't know. But I know the appointment for the next one is three weeks off."

"Good!" His voice is hot and soft as he says that. He'd have been fine with finishing each other by hand and mouth, but he's a lot happier knowing that he'll be able to slip fully into her, feel her legs wrap around his hips, and revel in her orgasm rippling against him.

His mouth settles on her again, tongue making small, firm circles. His fingers fill her, stretch her, add a slightly rough, slippery friction as a counterpoint to the smooth, wet glide of his tongue. Her body is tight, and her moans have lowered in volume but increased in pitch. He knows that means she's getting close.

He also knows he wants to feel her climax. He wants her body pulsing around his. Wants that first thrust to set her off, and welcome both of them home.

It's not the kind of move you can do with a new partner. It's not the sort of thing that happens with first time sex. Though their first time was certainly his best first-time-with-a-new-person-sex. This is the sort of sex that takes practice, skill, and a master level understanding of your partner's responses.

So he speeds his tongue, uses more pressure, but pulls his hand away. He strokes himself with that hand, both for lubrication, and because it feels so good to know he's wrapping himself in her.

Her legs are trembling, and she's almost stopped thrusting, holding her hips still so there's no chance of his tongue slipping away from that spot that makes everything perfect.

One last lick. She groans, a deep, satisfied sound, and he moves, fast. He's kissing her mouth, cock and tongue sinking into her together as her thighs shake and the first spasm fades into the next.

And it feels so good. It's never felt this good before. She's wet and slick and tight and rippling and calling out his name and her nails are digging into his back while she arches under him and urges him to go faster.

"I love you." And it wasn't how he had intended to say it to her. But its close enough, because they're together, and touching, and naked, and smiling, and maybe crying, and no matter what else he wanted to go with it, now is perfect, because it's right. Because it's what his touch is trying to sing to her, and giving it voice feels better than he thought words ever could.

"I love you, Michael." And hearing her say it back, as an expression of joy, not as a desperate balm to soothe the pain of an emotional amputation, feels better than he could have ever imagined.

It becomes something of a mantra, a verbal punctuation to each slide thrust.

It's been thirteen years since they met. Thirteen years since the first time they made love. And this is the most naked, most open, he's ever been. This is him, holding her close, slipping against her skin, feeling his body turn to vibrant, pulsing light as a susurrus of pleasure pulls inward from his fingers and toes, drawing towards his heart and cock and making him feel like the entire universe has shrunk down to just them.

He's loved her since Ireland, but for the first time he understands cherish, and for the first time that too is part of the web of emotions binding them together.

She's sweaty and flushed, her hair wild against the sheets, her eyes filled with tears, and her lips in a wide smile when he comes down enough from his climax to focus on her face.

"You're so beautiful."

She kisses the tip of his nose, licks his bottom lip, and wipes a tear he didn't know he was crying from his cheek.

"So are you."

In the end, because, no matter how long he wants to lie in and with her, this too, must end, she gets up to go to the bathroom. He wipes himself off, puts on his pajamas, and finds a towel to put over the wet spot.

She sleeps naked, and finds the fact that he sleeps in jammies amusing. He's told her it's good tactics. He's ready to go at a second's notice. She says sleeping naked is good tactics. While he's going at a second's notice, whomever might be breaking into their place is likely to be distracted by the naked woman with a gun.

He watches her come back to bed, appreciating her curves and flats. She settles in between the blankets, and he curls around her.

For the first time in months he falls asleep in minutes and does not dream.

When they wake to the sound of pounding on the door, it occurs to him that maybe building some actual walls under the loft, and turning that into a bedroom might be a good idea.

When it turns out to be Pearce, and he gets up, a bit embarrassed knowing both of them look and, more importantly, smell like sex, he's thinking it's an even better idea.

When he turns and sees Fi, a similar look on her face, that clinches it. Once Nate's killer has been dealt with, they're getting a real bedroom. With real doors. And maybe a good sized panic room. Hardened electronic equipment. Space to hide a few favorite guns. A breaching frame in place on the off chance they ever need to drop in on the club downstairs...

Pearce is saying something, and he needs to start focusing on now.


	21. 6.10.1

6.10 Desperate Times. Chasing a lead on Tyler Grey, Mike and Co head to Panama. Once there everything goes sideways, and it turns out that Card was behind killing Anson and Nate.

6.10.1

"I hope you know, I miss that time, too."

"Michael, I don't need Ireland. All I want is this."

"A junkyard in Panama?"

"You and me working together. Just us, the way it used to be. At the end of the day, this right here, is how it should be.

He realizes this is the second time she's said something like that. And he also realizes what he meant to say? Wanted to say? Whatever that thought lurking in the back of his mind, prompting him to mention Ireland as they build their own bulletproof glass breaching shells, is based on that idea.

You and me working together. That's always when he's been happiest. That's when he's been filled with the sense of satisfaction that comes from doing what's right.

When he's with her, he's not selling his soul. He's not doing bad things for the sake of some nebulous greater good.

When he's with Fi, life is pretty clear. There's right and wrong, good guys and bad guys, and he knows which side he wants to be on.

And he knows that for the last thirteen years there's always been something standing between him and her and working together.

He knows that's why they were so unhappy in Ireland.

He also knows why he's been cagy about long term commitments. Why he'd never said he loved her before three days ago.

And that was always the problem for them. Not a lack of love. There's always been love. Love is the easy part.

The lack has been commitment. The CIA owns Michael. He spent years trying to get back to them, but now that he's there...

Jesse had it right. Too much red tape. Too much compromise. Too much...

He's spent thirteen years torn between a demanding wife, who's given him less and less in the way of respect, attention, and affection, and a mistress he's adored.

It's time to ditch the wife, and marry the mistress.

It's time to make Fi his number one commitment.

In a junkyard in Panama, he's having an epiphany moment, one that he probably should have been self-aware enough to have already had, but well, he's not good at this sort of thing.

He's not good with people. Not good with relationships. And he's not good with them because it's easier to be bad at them, safer. His walls can stay in place, and he can keep his heart from being trampled if there are no real people in his life.

So he married his job. He gave himself to it body and soul, and it was more than happy to have him.

But he's not the same man who signed up for the CIA all those years ago.

And there are people in his life now.

And if he wants them, more importantly, wants Fi, then it's time for a divorce.

It's time to take his body and soul back from the CIA, because he can't give it to anyone else as long as they hold the papers on it.

As he thinks that, he feels the hold the CIA had on him break. He's well and truly done.

He looks at Fi, and he could say, "I love you." But that's not the important part here. He loved her in Ireland, and he left anyway. He loved her in Miami, and he still put the job and the Burn Notice first. So, no, those aren't the right words, not now.

He could say, "Let's get married." Which would please her, and would cover what he's thinking, but right now he's still not entirely his own to offer to her. And before he says anything like that to her, he wants to be able to make good on the promise. A proposal from a married man is meaningless.

So instead he says, "After I get Grey, I'll leave. I'm out."

"The CIA?" she asks, not sure if she's followed his train of thought.

"Out of all of it."

"Don't say that if you don't mean it."

"I do." He pauses for a beat. He sees it in her eyes. She knows this is worth a thousand I-love-yous. And he can see she doesn't quite trust it. But his guess is that has more to do with a sense of foreboding on what catastrophe will come next, as opposed to him not being sincere.

And he can see, from the way she's looking at him, that this is what she's wanted to hear for years.

"How does that sound?" he asks.

"Well, if we live long enough to see that happen, it sounds really good."

Fair enough. He looks at her and makes a silent promise to himself, to her, that they will live long enough for him to make good on this. And she looks back, accepting his promise, and adding her own to it. They don't touch, because, well, they're just not touchy-feely, cuddly types, especially in a junkyard in Panama where someone could come walking in any moment.

But he knows the next moment they have really alone, when no one is within ear shot, and the world isn't about to fall apart around them, that he'll tell her he loves her and lay his soul at her feet, knowing that she'll take it and cherish it, and finally give him the home he's always wanted. And he'll finally be able to accept it, and give it to her in return.


	22. 6.10.2

6.10.2

Card is in on it?

What the fucking hell is Card doing with this?

He wants to scream it. Wants to pound Card into a wet, red pulp.

Card is one of the good guys. Card trained him for God's sake. He trusted Card. That's the worst part of this. An evil conspiracy of unknown monsters is one thing. A man he looked up to, a man who taught him most of his tricks, that's something else all together.

They stand under the trees, and for a moment he thinks they'd be better off staying "dead." He and Fi could just vanish and say goodbye to all of this crap. Start over with new names and a new life. He'd learn Spanish, and they could get to... Uruguay or somewhere no one will be looking for them.

But Sam has a life back in the US, and Jesse, too. And even if his mom is royally pissed at him, she doesn't want him dead. She's just buried one son, and doing it for her other son and the closest thing she has to a daughter in less than two weeks is just too damn much.

So think. Sit down, regroup, plan, and get out of this.

What the hell do we do now, indeed?

"Sam, who do you know in Panama?" And that gets the ball rolling. Sam's got buddies everywhere, and he's done work down here. At the very least, they've got a pal in Colombia who owes them a favor. Maybe some media attention on this might be a good thing...

Hours later, after they've got step one in place, he's left with nothing to do. They're waiting for Sam and keeping an eye on Grey, neither of which is very useful for keeping his mind occupied.

Why did Card do it?

He wasn't part of the conspiracy. Michael would have found him if that was the case. He would have seen Card hiding in the paperwork. And he wouldn't have helped to get Fi out. And if he wanted Michael dead, why not put a bullet in him back when he fired on Anson? There was time to take the shot.

So what the hell just happened? Card's one of the good guys. He's a company man, through and through.

Shit.

Card's a company man. Killing Anson was about keeping his skeletons buried. Nate was collateral damage. One shot killed both of them. Nate was just in the wrong damn place. A foot to the left, a foot to the right, and all of the secrets, all of this crap, would have died with Anson.

And now, he and Fi, Sam and Jesse are just in the way as well. A few more bodies, and a very embarrassing chapter of CIA history gets tied up in a nice and tidy bow.

Fuck.


End file.
